Tuesday, 6 August 2013

All I need is a bitter song...To make me better. Much better.

Sometimes all you need is a bitter song. To make you better. Much better.

I am dark and twisty. Scary and damaged.

Other Grey's Anatomy references.

TITLE LYRICS: 'A Bitter Song' by Butterfly Boucher﻿

She stands in front of the
mirror, staring into her cold, lifeless eyes. Her gaze traces over every
imperfection, every small flaw that makes up part of the entire, worthless
whole.

Bad skin.

Yellow teeth.

Dull hair.

Plain features.

Lips that are too full for such a
pinched, ugly face.

Her eyes trail down, critically
noting the imperfections as they continue down her body.

Fat arms.

Fat face.

Grotesquely large bust that is
spilling over her dress and bulging under the strain of her now too-small bra
straps.

Fat stomach, fat thighs, fat fat
fat.

She bites her lip hard enough to
draw blood as she lifts her dress to expose her flawed form to the critic in
the mirror. With real spite she pinches the putrid roll of flab hanging over
her underpants, and imagines what it would feel like to simply be able to suck
the fat right off her bones. She pictures the procedure, squeezing the
offending flesh between her fingers.

Cut
here.

Insert
suction.

Drain.

Bleed
out on the bathroom floor because that's what you deserve you useless piece of
shit -

She stops herself, dropping the
hem of her dress and allowing her hand to hang limply by her side. The eyes in
the mirror flicker, leaving her face for a fraction of a second and falling on
the bottom draw of the vanity.

Open
it.

The eyes bore into her, urging
her, forcing her.

Open
the goddam drawer.

Slowly, fluidly, her hand drifts
towards the handle.

Open
it.

She watches as her fingers curl
around the cool polished metal with a sense of removal, as though it is not her
hand at all. It belongs to the girl in the mirror.

Her fingers find their
destination without any conscious thought or direction from her, which is just
as well, really. It's always better to let the girl in the mirror handle this
part.

She watches as three thick
ribbons of blood appear in the crook of her elbow, like three fluid bracelets worn
too high. The girl in the mirror bares her teeth, though she's pretty sure it's
meant to be a smile. More and more fluid ribbons slip onto her forearm, each
one more ragged than the last. A small puddle begins to form at her feet,
staining her bare toes. She risks a glance at the mirror, unsure if she should
retake control of her rogue hand and force it to stop. The girl in the mirror
gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head, as if to let her know that she
was in complete control of the situation.

The edges of the bracelets start
to blur together.

Finally her hand grows limp,
allowing the razor to slip effortlessly from her fingers. It hits the ground
with a tiny splash that seems to echo through the room. She raises the arm to
her face, inspecting the carnage and assessing the damage. It looks bad, but
she knows it's okay because the arm doesn't belong to her anyway. Her arm is
whole and undamaged; this torn, bloody mess belongs to the girl staring back at
her with wide, fearful eyes.

Her heart skips a beat before
settling into a ragged, unsteady rhythm.

The eyes staring back at her are
her own. The girl in the mirror is gone, leaving her to clean up the mess she
was only too happy to create.

Again.

Her breaths come out in short,
shallow bursts as the panic begins to make its presence known. The white tiles
on the wall start to swim before her eyes, and she desperately looks into the
mirror for guidance, for some clue as to what to do now.

Her own terrified eyes peer back
at her.

She hears footsteps approaching
and her mind kicks into gear, pushing aside both her and the girl in the mirror
to make room for the clean-up crew. They work quickly and efficiently,
simultaneously cleaning the floor and the bloody mess on her forearm. She
watches them with a sense of relief, breathing easier with every passing
minute. The clean-up crew always know what to do. There is a soft knock on the
door and she freezes, staring at the door handle with wide eyes. The clean-up
crew don't miss a beat.

"Hey," he says softly
from the other side. "Are you okay in there?"

We're
fine, the clean-up
crew hiss, glaring at her. Tell him we
are fine.

"I'm fine," she chokes
out, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I'll be out in a minute."

He hesitates by the door for the
length of ten heartbeats before she hears his footsteps retreating. She looks
down just in time to see the clean-up crew out the final touches on the bandage
on her arm.

Put
a jumper on, they
say, rolling their eyes. And for godsake
stop sniveling. What's done is done. Don't make it worse by being such a baby.

She obediently pulls a jumper
over her head, wincing slightly as the fabric brushes her arm.

Suck
it up, the girl
in the mirror mutters. She’s back. She always comes back. You know you only have yourself to blame.